


Thinking Ahead

by blacktofade



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:26:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktofade/pseuds/blacktofade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the prompt: <i>Eames tops the hell out of Arthur and Arthur just takes it and takes it and the two of them banter/talk filthy to each other. And Eames has to be like, "Spread em'" at some point. Then he fucks Arthur with Arthur's leg slung over his shoulder like in the pic. Make it as filthy as you can manage.</i> Originally posted <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/756.html?thread=248564#t248564">HERE</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinking Ahead

It just isn’t Arthur’s day.

He walks into the warehouse late, his shoes squishing wetly with each step he takes across the concrete floor. He finds Dom, Ariadne, and Eames reclined on plastic folding chairs, Yusuf standing beside the PASIV device, finger poised ready to send them into a dream.

“You’re late to the party,” Eames tells him, his lips quirking upwards as he speaks.

Arthur ignores him and shrugs out of his soaked jacket, peeling it down his arms before tossing it over the back of a free chair.

Meeting Dom’s eyes he says, “A pipe burst in my apartment; it’s flooded out.”

He rolls up his right sleeve and takes the IV cable from Yusuf. Despite the uncomfortable itch his wet clothes cause, he lies back in the open chair meant for him and slips the needles under his skin at the wrist. He feels Eames’ eyes on him and he looks up; Eames shrugs.

“Well, aren’t you going to fix it?”

“That’s what my landlord is for. He sent a guy over to look at it, who said it would be about a week. What else can I do? I’ll stay in a hotel for seven days.”

“You can always stay with me,” Eames says with a straight face, but Arthur can hear the laughter in his voice.

“Your mom’s already offered me a place,” he starts, but then Cobb’s nodding before things escalate, Yusuf releases the Somnacin, and Arthur falls backwards into a dream before he can hear Eames’ response.

*

He thinks it’s just a joke, but he ends up outside Eames’ place at eight in the evening when his shoes are still squelching and his toes are cold and painfully wrinkled.

Eames opens the door and doesn’t look at all surprised to see him standing there.

“Did my mother kick you out?”

Arthur wonders why he even came here; it’s a bad idea.

*

On the first night, he wanders into the kitchen at half-one in the morning in search of a glass of water. He finds Eames sitting casually on the countertop eating a bowl of cereal and flicking through an Auto Trader. Spoon halfway towards his mouth, Eames looks up and drips milk everywhere. It’s probably not the weirdest thing Arthur will find him doing, he’s sure, but it’s a pretty good start.

“Glass?” Arthur asks, because he still needs that drink and it’s easier if he avoids pointing out the obvious.

Eames nods to the left. “Cabinet above the dishwasher,” he says and Arthur hears the spoon click against his teeth as he eats another mouthful.

The water from the faucet tastes metallic, but he drinks it anyway. He stands watching Eames turn the pages of the magazine and wonders if he should roll his die, just to make sure.

“Apple Jacks or Cocoa Pops?” Eames asks without looking up and Arthur is pretty sure he didn’t come out here for food, but Eames looks up again and Arthur knows his totem is on the nightstand, too far away for him to reach.

He doesn’t like either, but he asks for Cocoa Pops anyway.

*

The first thing Arthur learns about Eames is that he shaves in the living room, electric razor buzzing above the noise of the telly. The second thing Arthur learns is that Eames can’t get enough _Live with Regis and Kelly_.

“They’ve got chemistry,” Eames tells him, tilting his head back to remove the stubble under his chin.

Arthur doesn’t know if it’s true and doesn’t stick around to find out. He grabs his jacket and goes to goes to a nearby Starbucks for coffee and a breakfast muffin.

*

The fourth morning, Eames follows him out the door, walks just a step behind him all the way for five blocks until they reach the coffee shop.

“So this is where you’ve been coming,” Eames says as though it matters, as though he cares.

Arthur orders his drink and food, ignoring Eames’ bait. He finds a seat outside and Eames sits opposite, watching him take the lid off his cup and carefully add one sugar.

“I bet my coffee’s just as good.”

Arthur shrugs to say _perhaps_ then takes a sip. It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t wince, hides it by sharply digging his nails into his knee. It makes his first bite of muffin taste like nothing at all, but by the third and fourth, the rich taste of banana and nut fills his mouth.

“I make a mean breakfast,” Eames tells him, stealing piece of his food as he sets it down to take a drink. Eames pulls a face.

“That’s horribly sweet; how can you stand it?”

“Used to it, I guess,” he replies and Eames makes another face.

“That’s bad for your health.”

Arthur finishes the muffin and wipes his fingers on a napkin before speaking.

“Since when do you care about my health?”

Eames smirks.

“I don’t, but I’m sure Cobb does. Do you know how hard it is to find a reliable point man around here?”

“Nice to know I’m good for something.”

“Better than nothing.”

Arthur snorts into his coffee and sips the rest in silence.

*

The fifth day, there’s bacon and scrambled eggs sitting on two plates in the kitchen. There’s also a pot of coffee on and the radio is tuned into some talk show channel, where listeners call in with their stories about how they would spend their perfect Friday night.

He’s pretty sure Eames doesn’t care for that kind of crap and he swivels the dial until he finds an oldies station. Eames walks in when the first chords of a Cat Stevens song starts up.

“I hope you didn’t lose my favourite station,” he says and laughs when Arthur looks away feeling guilty and thinking that he shouldn’t have presumed to know Eames’ tastes.

Arthur lets out a huff of breath and pours a cup of coffee for himself. He pointedly puts the pot back when Eames holds out his mug in a silent request for him to fill it. It takes a few tries, but Arthur eventually finds the sugar – it’s in a container labelled _flour_ and Eames once again fails to surprise him; he adds a teaspoon full of granules and stirs it in, ignoring Eames’ look.

They sit down across from each other at the kitchen table and eat while _Wild World_ plays gently in the background. It’s not exactly how Arthur would prefer to spend his morning – for starters the eggs are slightly overcooked and the coffee tastes old – but Eames seems content and for some reason he can’t bring himself to take that away from him.

*

Arthur leaves early the morning his own apartment is meant to be ready. He slips out the front door before Eames even has time to pad barefooted down the hallway and start the shower as Arthur is used to hearing each day, just after he awakens. He doesn’t stick around long enough for the scent of Eames’ shampoo to drift under his door.

Mr. Jennings – his landlord – tells him there’s been a complication, that it’ll be another four days before he can return. He makes it back in time for Eames to answer his door, a slice of buttered toast in one hand, a white towel slung low around his hips.

“Thought you’d left,” Eames says, scratching at the stubble he’d obviously forgone to shave.

“How did you know it was me?” Arthur asks in response to Eames’ disregard for his lack of clothing.

“I didn’t.”

The smirk that follows hits Arthur low in the stomach; the man is infuriatingly cocky and Arthur hates how much he thinks it suits him. He takes a page from Eames’ book and invites himself in, doesn’t even ask if he can stay longer, just steps through into the kitchen and starts making coffee.

*

“There’s no point taking two cars,” Eames tells him, grabbing Arthur by the hips, and stealing the keys straight out the pocket of his pants.

Arthur struggles against the fingers that press into the skin through the many layers of his suit and realises just how strong Eames is. He breaks free, jabs Eames in the ribs with a half-hearted punch, and grabs his coat off the sofa arm.

“Fine, but I’m driving,” he says, walking towards the front door.

The heat of Eames’ hands clings to his body for the rest of the day, even after he takes a cold shower and scrubs at his skin until it’s reddened and raw.

*

Eames drives today, winding through traffic with skill and grace, before parking next to Arthur’s car, the one with the small white visitor’s badge on it that announces he’s a stranger in this complex.

They’ve been invited out for drinks with Cobb, Ariadne, and Yusuf at six and Eames stays in the shower until five-forty. Arthur smells of alcohol swabs and forced sleep, but he does his best to cover it with aftershave as he shaves in the five minutes he has left. He cuts himself twice and hisses in pain at the sting as he carefully pats his face with the strong scent of Calvin Klein.

Eames complains at him for making them late, but it’s five fifty-eight when they leave the apartment. Arthur tucks in his scarf and buttons up his coat, bracing for the cold outside. Eames is in a dress shirt and slacks and not much else. Arthur is pretty sure Eames is cold-blooded, but Eames laughs at him when they walk into the club and a wall of heat hits them.

“You have to think ahead,” Eames says with a casual laugh.

*

Arthur is drunk by nine, but they don’t walk home until one. By that time, it’s cold enough that there’s a faint slush of snow tracing along the curbs and Arthur’s nose burns as he breathes. He slips his scarf up over it and laughs as Eames shivers and shakes next to him. Eames shoots him a look, one that’s spoiled by the pink tinge in his cheeks from the cold and the slight running of his nose. He wipes it with the back of his hand as Arthur scrunches his face up in disgust.

“You’re revolting,” he tells Eames, who just laughs and moves to walk the opposite side of him.

Arthur doesn’t feel the faint tugging until it’s too late and the scarf around his head and neck disappears with a faint swish. A taxi passes by with its light switched off and the engine drones out Eames’ voice, but it’s probably for the best, Arthur thinks, because he was probably only saying something rude or condescending.

He tugs at the loose end of the material now around Eames’ throat, but Eames clings tight. The cold nips at the back of his neck and his eyes begin to water. Arthur kicks the back of Eames’ foot and sends him stumbling forward in flurry of swearing.

Eames spends the next three blocks trying to give him a flat tire, but Arthur still manages to be more coordinated than him, dodging to the sides to avoid Eames’ heavy step and the clouded breath that escapes when Eames informs him that he’s cheating – he’s not sure how, but he’s not sober enough to argue.

The warmth in the stairwell welcomes them in and by the time they reach Eames’ floor, Arthur is glad he doesn’t have his scarf anymore. It doesn’t stop him from trying to steal it back, though, but they’re laughing as they stumble across the threshold and Eames is batting at his hands as he tries to take the scarf and they’re bumping into each other as they make their way down the hallway. Fingers catch his left wrist, then the right, lift them high above his head and tug him to a halt as they pin him to the wall.

He certainly can’t get his scarf now, but he forgets why he really needs it anyway, because Eames looks up at him and there’s not a sound; the deep rumbling laugh from Eames stops and all Arthur can hear is the steady in-out of breathing.

Eames’ face is rosy, but Arthur can feel the blood pounding through his own and knows it probably looks about the same.

For once in his life Eames isn’t smirking, isn’t making jibes, just stands ever so still and watches Arthur carefully. Nervous laughter bubbles in Arthur’s throat because Eames doesn’t let him go, doesn’t move away, and it throws him off because those are the sorts of things Eames does for a joke, but there’s no smile, no sarcasm.

Eames parts his lips and shifts closer.

“You’re drunk,” Arthur tells him, trying to tug his arms back down, but Eames’ grip is strong.

“So are you,” Eames counters and it’s true.

“It’s not excuse to act foolishly.”

“No, but it makes it a damn sight easier.”

Eames tips his chin up and his cool mouth brushes lightly against Arthur’s. It’s ridiculously stupid, but it’s far too easy to respond. He parts his lips and lets Eames slip his tongue inside because it’s pressing white heat against his skin and seems to know exactly what it’s doing.

Eames’ hands finally loosen around his wrists and move to rest upon his waist; Arthur forgets to pull his arms back down for at least a minute. He rests his hands over Eames’ own and grips tightly because he doesn’t know what else to do with his fingers, which itch to slide across the material of Eames’ slacks.

Eames presses forward and Arthur is seconds away from lifting a leg and twining it around Eames’ hip. However, he finally takes Eames’ advice and thinks ahead; he imagines a morning where he wakes up alone in a life that’s uncomplicated, then he thinks of one where he’s tangled against Eames’ back, dragging a lazy-soft mouth down his inked shoulder. The latter sounds more appealing, but he draws away because he can’t, they shouldn’t be doing this, not in this state.

Eames makes a soft noise that sounds like a protest and tries to kiss him again, but he turns his head and Eames stops centimetres away.

“You’re drunk,” Arthur repeats with a gentle push against Eames’ chest. “Go to bed.”

“I was planning on it,” Eames says, his voice muffled because he’s somehow managed to drag his mouth along the line of Arthur’s throat. “Let me take you with me.”

Arthur pushes harder and forces Eames to take a step back. For a second neither of them move, but then Eames lifts his hand from Arthur’s hip and ghosts it up his side, barely touching him, but sliding heat along his body anyway.

“Let me touch you,” he breathes against Arthur’s face, but Arthur stumbles aside, his feet not quite steady as the room tilts dangerously. It’s not that Arthur doesn’t want to just give in, he does, ever so much, but it’ll be the worst decision of his life if he does it now. He’s not in control, he doesn’t want this to be just another regret in his life.

“Goodnight, Eames,” Arthur whispers, not meeting Eames’ eye and slipping away from the long fingers that twist under his belt despite his objections.

At the end of the hallway, just before he disappears into the spare room he’s made his own, he looks back over his shoulder and sees Eames leaning against the wall his forehead resting on his arm. He looks defeated and disappointed and Arthur shuts the door behind him before he changes his mind.

*

It’s awkward when they pass in the morning, shoulders bumping as Eames walks to the kitchen and Arthur to the front door. Arthur doesn’t say anything, but not because he has nothing to tell him. There are a hundred thousand thoughts in his head, a million more excuses, and only one word that will remove the phantom touch from around his wrists and across his mouth.

The answer to Eames’ requests: _yes_.

*

Eames orders them a pizza then spends the night slouched on the sofa, wearing sweats and a t-shirt, with a perspiring bottle of beer in his hand. Arthur crashes out beside him, his work clothes rumpled from a long day. He grabs a slice and sits back, loosening his tie with his free hand. Eames rests his feet upon on the coffee table, toes wriggling inside his socks.

“What is this?” he asks around a mouthful of crust.

“Speed,” Eames answers, glancing over at him. He pauses, watches Arthur take another bite of food, then raises an eyebrow. “Who taught you how to eat pizza?”

“What?”

“Arthur, who on earth eats pizza from the crust down?”

Arthur carefully swallows his mouthful.

“I do, obviously.” He takes another bite and hides his amusement behind a paper napkin as he wipes the tomato sauce from his lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll take my habits with me when I go.”

“Will I have to sleep on your sofa?”

It takes Arthur a moment to understand the joke, but then he laughs because he really can’t help it, and steals the beer from Eames’ hand. He takes a drink and hands it back in time to see Keanu Reeves deliver what is probably meant to be a heart rendering speech about teamwork. His hand is cold and wet and he wipes it on his pants.

“What’s this movie about?”

Eames cranes his neck and stares wide-eyed.

“How have you not seen this before? There’s something wrong with you.”

Arthur finishes his slice and twists his greasy fingers into his napkin; Eames tilts his bottle back and finishes the last dregs before leaning forwards and setting it on a coaster. Arthur doesn’t know if it’s intentional or not, but when Eames sits back again, he seems to be noticeably closer. Flashes of what happened between them a few nights past blindside him and he undoes the buttons of his collar because it’s suddenly constricting.

Eames casually flings his arm across the back of the sofa and Arthur finds himself leaning forwards, away from it, placing his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palms. In the movie, things reach a climax as they start to move passengers from one bus to another, while still in motion. Someone jumps, almost falls, as it is with every suspenseful movie, and Eames’ hand is suddenly on his shoulder, forearm pressing warmly through his shirt into his back. He shrugs it off without looking at Eames.

“The yawn and stretch trick won’t work on me,” Arthur tells him. “You’re as subtle as a punch in the face.”

Eames laughs and doesn’t try to touch him again.

He tries to ignore it as Eames stares openly at him, focuses on the television because it’s a hell of a lot easier, but he’s sure Eames is getting closer. The breath on his cheek is somehow expected, but that doesn’t help at all, because Arthur’s flesh still breaks out in goosebumps and he forgets to blink. He tilts his head and slowly looks over, his gaze moving from Eames’ throat, to his chin, his full lips, the curve of his nose, then finally his eyes.

Music builds in the background, growing louder and more dissonant, and it’s funnily enough how Arthur feels inside. Eames’ knuckles brush against his leg and Arthur doesn’t try to move away. He looks straight at Eames to prove he’s not afraid of confrontation – even though he is, completely so – and it’s like Eames sees right through him, because he offers a crooked smile and a small shrug as if to say _Here we go again_.

Eames shifts even closer and Arthur can smell the faint trace of alcohol on his breath, but it’s nothing compared to how it had been the time before. Their noses brush and Arthur swallows. The air is thin and completely still.

A bus explodes loudly on the television in the background and Arthur blinks, pulls entirely away, and reaches forward for another slice of pizza because the uncomfortableness crawling up the back of his neck tells him to do something, anything.

“No,” Eames says, “not this time.” He grabs the remote and mutes the sound, just as Sandra Bullock starts yelling.

He knocks the pizza out of Arthur’s hand back into the box and winds his fingers around his tie. Without finesse, he pulls him forward and Arthur barely has time to slip his hands over Eames’ broad shoulders before lips collide with his own.

Eames tastes of green peppers and spicy sausage, and he tangles his fingers into his hair and pulls him closer because he can’t get enough.

He’s completely sober now, there are no excuses, no reasons why he should stop kissing Eames, so he doesn’t. He tightens his grip and tilts his head and one of Eames’ hands drops to his lap, impatiently slipping under the waistband of his pants. Arthur quickly snatches his wrist and stills it because he’s pretty sure it’s getting too far ahead.

“C’mon, Arthur,” Eames says into his mouth. “Don’t be a square.”

Arthur bites at his lip in response, but lets his arm go, because what’s the point in delaying the inevitable?

Eames’ fingers go straight back to working their way inside his slacks and his teeth nip tiny bruises along Arthur’s jaw.

Eames unfastens Arthur’s belt and pants with one hand, while he clutches his side tightly with the other. Arthur can’t look away as Eames reaches in under every last piece of clothing, pushing material aside and gripping him tightly. His breath stutters and his stomach dips inwards, but he doesn’t blink. He watches as one pale hand wraps around his slowly stiffening cock and lifts his hips for more. Eames is a man of many talents and Arthur has just learned one more of them.

He gently squeezes and tugs and soon Arthur’s cock is flushed red and completely hard.

“Well that was easy,” Eames says with a laugh and Arthur thinks about hitting him, but then he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock and all his muscles turn to jell-o.

“Don’t think it had anything to do with you; I was picturing Claudia Schiffer between my legs.”

Eames flicks his wrist, makes Arthur’s hips cant involuntarily, and smiles.

“I think it had everything to do with me, love.”

Arthur shuts him up with a rough kiss and Eames makes a noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a moan. Never moving away from Arthur’s lips, Eames slips off the sofa and kneels on the floor, pulling at Arthur’s pants to tug them easily down his legs. He tosses them to the side haphazardly and Arthur complains, pushing a _Do you know how much those cost?_ straight into Eames’ mouth.

“Trust me, you won’t care after I’m through with you.”

Arthur lets out a snort of doubt; Eames pulls back.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No,” Arthur tells him bluntly. “Those were my best pants, you’ll have to do a hell of a lot to make me – ”

He’s cut off as Eames pushes his briefs down enough that Arthur’s cock finally slips free, strokes him firmly, spreads precome with his thumb, then slowly draws away and licks his hand clean.

“I’ll start now then, shall I?”

He shifts forward and Arthur manages to get a hand behind his head as he moves his mouth down to his erection. He sucks gently on the tip then slowly slips more of Arthur between his lips. It seems to be never ending and Arthur starts to worry.

“I’ll choke you,” he says, voice more than a little breathless.

Eames carries on until Arthur’s sure he hits the back of his throat, and then goes some more. It’s impossibly hot and wet and Arthur is pretty sure he could care less about his pants right now, but he certainly won’t tell that to Eames, who bobs his head and takes it all when Arthur bucks upwards. Eames finally pulls off for a second.

“Not likely,” he says with a smirk that’s so full of suggestion that Arthur just about forgets how to breathe. There’s yet another talent.

Eames goes back to Arthur’s cock, licking along the underside and dragging his tongue firmly across the head. He grabs onto Eames’ hair and pushes his erection into his lips, pressing until Eames finally opens his mouth and lets him slide inside. Warmth once again engulfs him and he pushes his heels against the wooden floor to give himself better leverage as he gently starts to thrusts his hips. Eames allows him to use his mouth and doesn’t even let out a hint of noise, despite Arthur digging his fingernails into the back of his head and pushing his nose into the hair at the base of his cock.

He can feel his orgasm building and his legs start to shake. It’s then that Eames slips a hand around him and squeezes. He groans quietly and lets his head tip back into the sofa cushions.

“It’s not ending that quickly, I assure you,” Eames whispers, trailing his mouth down the inside of Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur looks down at him and hates that he can feel rather than see the smile Eames offers him.

“Do _not_ move,” Eames tells him and Arthur really doesn’t have enough strength to do otherwise; he’s got absolutely no breath left inside him and it feels like all his bones are missing. Eames pulls away, hands sliding down his thighs, and disappears down the hallway. He returns a few moments later, hair askew and shirt missing, and kneels back between Arthur’s splayed legs.

Eames’ fingers dance up in the inside of his thighs and push, nudging into the soft skin.

“Spread them for me,” he whispers hotly into Arthur’s ear and it’s shameless how quickly he complies, letting his knees fall open and dragging his legs wider apart.

Arthur stills as Eames’ fingers drift towards his briefs, watches as he slips his thumbs under the waistband and tugs them down his legs. They tangle around his ankles and Eames helps slip them off, lifting one foot then the other. Eames presses a kiss to the inside of his knee and stares openly between Arthur’s legs. Arthur tugs his tie even looser and doesn’t even try to stop his cock from leaking messily all over the bottom of his dress shirt.

Eames grips his hips tightly and pulls him forward suddenly; he lets out a cut off yell and flings his arms out to grab the sofa cushions under him, but Eames just chuckles, the low kind that rumbles in his chest. With Arthur’s waist hanging off the end of the couch, Eames slides a hand up the back of one thigh, lifting it and curving his knee over his shoulder. Arthur is completely open and at his mercy.

From his pocket, Eames draws a condom and a bottle of lubricant. He sets the condom aside, but pops the bottle open and coats his fingers. Arthur’s cock twitches in anticipation and Eames smirks at him when he catches the movement.

“Calm down,” he says, voice horribly patronising. “Haven’t even started on you yet.”

He brushes a fingertip over Arthur’s entrance and holds it steady as Arthur twists his hips against the feeling. It slips inside him before he can tell Eames to wait, but it moves easily, turning and pressing until pleasure flares within him and he’s pretty sure Eames is a pro at this.

“Bit tight,” Eames tells him, as if he didn’t already know, couldn’t feel how much just one finger stretches him. “Didn’t know I was handling a virgin.”

“You’re not,” Arthur grinds out and it’s worth it – so, so worth it – for the look that appears on Eames’ face for a brief second. He definitely just had the upper hand, because as he pushes himself down onto Eames’ finger, a healthy flush blooms across Eames’ cheeks.

Eames quickly slips in another finger and, surprised as he is at it, Arthur relaxes and lets it push all the way inside him. While Eames is preoccupied, focusing more on the way he moves his fingers, Arthur lifts his other foot off the ground and digs his heel into the skin just above the waistband of Eames’ sweats. Easily, he slides one side off Eames’ hip, but they’re so loose that the other side slips too. They pool at Eames’ knees and reveal the fact that Eames isn’t wearing any underwear; Arthur knows Eames needs to hurry up because he definitely needs him inside him.

The third finger isn’t necessary, just a courtesy. Arthur tells him this, but Eames just grins and pushes it all the way into him anyway. Arthur grips the cushions tightly and at the rustle under his hand, he looks down to find the condom. He picks it up and easily opens it, holding it out to Eames as an incentive to hurry the fuck up, which is exactly what he does.

He pulls his wet fingers out and snatches the condom from him, rolling it onto his own cock without missing a beat. He coats himself in lube, leans forward, and presses the head of his erection into Arthur’s body. He holds it there and Arthur squirms and writhes, hoping to draw him further inside, his breathing ragged and coming in loud pants.

“What’s all the racket about, Arthur? Still upset about your trousers?”

Arthur groans out a “Yes,” because he’s not going to give in so easily. Eames looks down at him and lifts his eyebrows.

“Well, I guess there’s no point in me trying anymore if they really mean that much to you.”

He starts to pull back, but Arthur knows a bluff when he sees one, and Eames has the worst poker face ever.

“No,” he says, reaching down and grabbing the back of Eames’ thigh to stop him from moving. “You can just buy me a new pair.”

“Fair enough,” Eames tells him, though Arthur is pretty sure it’s only because he wants this as much as Arthur does, wants to fuck him right then, right there, without any interruptions.

He slams into Arthur without notice, forcing all of Arthur’s breath out in one fell swoop. He doesn’t wait for him to start breathing again, just slips almost the whole way out, then completely back inside again. Arthur squeezes with his legs and Eames turns his head and nips at the thigh thrown over his shoulder.

Arthur starts lifting his hips to meet Eames’ rhythm, but just when he thinks he understands it, Eames changes it and he’s left trying to catch up.

Eames rolls his hips, his thrusts quick and shallow, as he works Arthur open. Arthur curls his leg further around Eames’ back and pulls him closer, until their lips brush and they share the same air.

Arthur’s cock rubs against Eames’ stomach and he’s sure he’s not going to last long because Eames finds a new rhythm – this time his thrusts are long and smooth, his movements suddenly soft and gentle. He relaxes back on the sofa, closing his eyes and letting Eames decide where they go from there. As it is, Eames slips his hand into Arthur’s own, and for a second he thinks he’s gone crazy, that there’s a silly, romantic side to Eames, but he just picks it up and helps curl it around Arthur’s cock. He sets a leisurely pace then allows Arthur to carry on by himself.

It’s surprisingly slow and steady as they slide together and Arthur is impressed that Eames could ever be so gentle, but then he thinks about how Eames is in the morning, still half-asleep, movements careful and precise, and the way Eames manoeuvres through dreams, cautious and always professional. He doesn’t know why it’s taken so long for him to figure it out, but he thinks it’s okay because he knows now, will be able to see it better in the future.

“Stop thinking,” Eames murmurs, hips faltering slightly. “I can hear you and it’s off-putting.”

There’s the Eames he knows.

He says nothing, just tugs him down and presses their mouths together. A thumb pushes behind his knee, hitching his leg further back towards Arthur’s chest and that’s about all Arthur can take because Eames has him positioned perfectly, as though he knows exactly how to angle him to give him the most pleasure. He speeds his hand up, arches his back, firmly pressing their chests together, then comes over his knuckles and both of their stomachs.

“Atta boy,” Eames whispers, but his voice breaks somewhere in the middle and the condescension isn’t half as effective. He can feel himself tightening around Eames’ cock and it’s with a string of curses that involve deities and the repetition of Arthur’s name that Eames slumps against his chest, spent and breathing hard.

His mouth is raw from all of Eames’ kisses and the stubble that insists on rubbing against his skin, but it doesn’t stop him from tugging on Eames’ bottom lip with his teeth and swiping at it with his tongue. Eames groans quietly and carefully pulls out of him.

Arthur looks at the television screen over Eames’ shoulder and the credits are rolling; he’s missed the ending, but he thinks what they did was far more interesting than any movie could ever be, anyway. He lowers his legs to the floor and then doesn’t move a muscle because he’s content and Eames doesn’t seem like he’ll be moving any time soon.

*

Arthur’s apartment is leak-free two days after. He finds this out because his cell phone buzzes across the top of Eames’ nightstand at seven in the morning, waking him and forcing a tired groan from his lips.

“‘S yours,” Eames mumbles, slipping his head under his pillow.

Arthur stretches along Eames’ side and carefully clambers over him, sliding one leg over Eames’ waist and holding himself over him on all fours to reach across.

“‘Lo?” he says after pushing the small green button.

As he speaks to his landlord, Eames’ head reappears, eyes blinking in the half-light. His mouth finds Arthur’s collarbone and Arthur only just refrains from making noises as Eames uses his teeth and tongue.

“You’re insufferable,” he sighs, tossing the phone back down after he ends the call. He rolls over and collapses onto the soft mattress, hoping to get at least another hour’s sleep. Eames follows after him, though, falling onto his chest, slipping a thigh between his legs, and pressing forwards in all the right places.

Arthur’s breath catches and he wonders how important sleep really is.

“It’s still not ready,” he lies as Eames licks under his chin. “I think I’ll need a few more days here.”

Eames bites him gently and laughs against his skin.

“Arthur, if you want to stay, just stay,” he says and Arthur thinks that he just might.

*

END


End file.
